Over the weekend, we visited quaint little Marble Falls, Texas and dined at http://www.rivercitygrilletx.com/, a lovely restaurant overlooking Lake Marble Falls.
Deep Fried Bottom Feeder
Category: Culture
4th Annual Readers’ Poll April 1988
Today we delve into the bowels of one of my former teen mag subscriptions, “Star Hits,” for the 4th Annual Readers’ Poll Results. The cover reveals the top stars of April 1988. Check out who’s included in the Most Promising New Acts.
Duran Squared’s own John Taylor topped the list of most desirables, with those pouty lips and bedroom eyes.
George Michael’s video was voted the 4th best video of 1987. As it turned out, the limelit half of Wham! (Bam, thank you, Sir, may I have another?) actually did NOT want pretty Asian model’s sex. Not remotely. Not even in a filthy public restroom with e-coli-covered stalls.
The lyrics should have given us a clue:
There’s things that you guess and things that you know
There’s boys that you can trust and girls that you don’t
Girls are untrustworthy, huh? Perhaps that should have been included on the Bummer of the Year. Michael Jackson’s comeback was determined to be the biggest bummer. And Iran/Contra was number four??
But the most interesting reads are what the stars themselves chose. Siouxsie Sioux’s most desirable pick was Yul Brynner. The King and I? At least she didn’t have the nerve to list herself, as Andy Fletcher did.
And note the difference in tone maturity level between the choices of former GoGo’s singer Belinda Carlisle and the Beastie Boys (R.I.P. MCA).
Who knew Belinda was so mad about Fred Astaire, and so rocked by the PTL scandal?(R.I.P. Tammy Faye Bakker.) And The Beastie Boys chose Sssss-Samantha Fox as the BEST female singer? Is that because she sang from her diaphragm so well? I won’t hate on her; naughty girls need love, too.
Pickle Parts & Pepper Carcasses
When I purchase a package of bacon, I expect slabs of dead piggy, all red and white marbled and ready to fry. I do not anticipate random snouts and tails tossed in. In civilized society, that would be unthinkable. If I wanted that, I would simply buy hot dogs. Likewise, when I buy a carton of orange juice, I have the power to decide how much pulp I would like, but I can be certain that strips of rind will not be thrown in for flavor.
So why is it okay for pickle and jalapeno companies to shove in pickle tops and jalapeno tops in my jars of otherwise usable food items? The answer is: IT IS NOT. If Tylenol can’t include razor blades in their bottles of acetaminophen any more, then this should not be permissible as well.
It’s like people who went to I.T.T. who couldn’t find jobs and are now passing out flyers; they’re saying, “Here, throw this away for me.” That’s what these manufacturers are essentially demanding of me, the consumer. Throw your own crap away. Don’t fill up my jar with your rubbish. Why do I have to pay for that?
No one wants to bite into a breakfast taco, filled with a salsa containing pointy jalapeno stems that slit the roof of her mouth. Joe Schmoe doesn’t want to spend his piddly lunch hour, wretching up the half-chewed bite of ham and cheese sandwich containing a hard, impenetrable pickle top. Who can afford to spit out forty cent’s worth of lunch? Not me. Not in THIS recession. Not in this lifetime.
If they can put a man on the moon before I was even birthed, if they can put a lifetime of entertainment on a teensy wittle phone that only requires one to merely wave his hand across in order to answer said overpriced, soon-outdated phone, then they can remedy this. Chop chop!
Truck Stop Weary, Numero Quatro
Hands down, this is the guy. This is the guy you want leaning intimately into you, inviting you to be in cahoots with him, to share the secrets he’s learned on the road.
Forgive me. I was premature in my assumption. THIS is the guy.
Yes, the one with the mutton chops, driving his Rebel Flag-decked out Bandit up to California. Is he sucking a Lemonhead? Is he dipping Skoal? He’s a man of mystery. I just feel a strong sense of… Gary Sandy surrounding him. Yes, that’s it. He must be related to Gary Sandy. You know, Andy Travis from WKRP?
Whoa. Is it hot in here? I’m feeling faint, and it’s not a touch of Johnny Fever. Believe me. Okay, time to refocus. Surely, there’s some trucker in this book who can compete with an aging sitcom star.
Um. No. That is NOT the ticket. Perhaps this young fella?
His head says Yankee, but his body says Confederacy. Who has time for a cocksure whippersnapper with an identity complex? Not me. I haven’t got time for the pain. Okay, let’s spin the wheel. Surely there’s SOMEONE.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH! Make it stop!
Youth League Roller Derby
What else is there for a toddler to do in the aftermath of Nazi-ravaged Warsaw, Poland but skate her cares away in the rubble and cess?*
*My best-guess caption
Truck Stop Weary, Numero Tres
- Carlisle, Pennsylvania 1988 from Marc Wise’s” Truck Stop”
Wayne is caught up in the ambiance that IS a Pennsylvania truck stop. So filled with anticipation is he of this new day, that he could barely push his hat down on his head. And who could blame him? Just walking into this charming lounge would brighten anyone’s day.
Across this great nation of ours, other truckers speedily consume their meals, rejoicing at the prospect of what the road will offer. George can barely contain himself.
Harlan is busting at the seams. As soon as he finishes this cigarette, it’s out of the comfort of this red booth and into the luxury of the big rig.
Young Buck, Jr is positively stoked to be spending the day with Buck, Sr, rolling across the wide open spaces of Wyoming, counting bug corpses as they splatter on the windshield.
Dick shares a glance with Kevin, a glance that conveys what words never could. Finish up your pie there, son, and let’s hit the road. Back to the snow and the relentless wind. We don’t get paid to sit. Well, technically, we DO, but you know what I mean.
Truck Stop Weary, Numero Dos
I’m so excited. And I just can’t hide it. Seriously. I convey this both in my posture and my expression, which exude a certain joie de vivre.
All ye men in trucker caps, dig through your cab until you find the mix tape with “Eye of the Tiger” and “Don’t Stop Believing” and play the bejesus out of it until you get your heads on right.
These pics aren’t even from the same STATE, but it looks like the same place, the same hopeless truck stop, filled with men filled with defeat. Seriously, brothers–y’all got to start listening to some Joel Osteen or something. Here, I’ll get you started:
I’m the head and not the tail.
I’m more than a conqueror.
I’m the victor and not the victim.
And just in case you can’t find that mix tape, here’s Jerry Reed’s inspirational “East Bound and Down”:
Truck Stop Weary, Numero Uno
He may be young, but he’s hardly fresh. With no woman to put his arm around, he chooses the coin-operated TV, with a screen smaller than a Kindle. It’s 2am, and he just filled up the tank of his 18-wheeler. At $3.50 per gallon of diesel fuel, and a 300 gallon tank, that was about a grand. But don’t worry; he gets 5.5 miles per gallon. Excuse me? No wonder he looks miffed.
Sally just took his order, and will be right back to top off his coffee. He hasn’t exercised in weeks years, he spends all day hunched over the wheel, and he neglected to take his multivitamin this morning. But do you think he ordered the Cobb Salad? No, sir. Would you order the Cobb Salad if you just spent an hour adjusting your rear tandems because the moron who loaded your truck put all the weight in the back? I didn’t think so. He ordered the fried beige basket–you know, filled with french fries and fried meat, with a side of toast and gravy–the kind that keeps Dairy Queen (and cardiologists) in business.
Dang, I picked the wrong day to fast.
Now can we just talk about that enchanting clock for a sec? Some mastercraftsman took a piece of wood and rendered an awesome image, and if Billy weren’t so damn jaded, he’d turn around and recognize. Maybe he needs a little Savior’s hand on his left shoulder. What do you think, Billy?
There’s a place not far from here. Get your bearings, get a message. They’ll set you straight.
McDonough, Georgia 1987
Comin’ Up On Juneteenth
If you’re not from the United States, you may not realize that each state celebrates different “Emancipation Days,” depending on which date slaves learned of their freedom. When Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on September 22, 1862, it was set to go into effect on January 1, 1863. Obviously, the states that were not yet a part of The Union would have no cause to celebrate. Kansas entered the Union as the 34th state in 1861, but West Virginia did not enter as the 35th state until June of 1863.
This is what The Union flag looked like at that time. Feel free to count the stars!
In Texas, Emancipation Day is celebrated on June 19. It commemorates the announcement of the abolition of slavery made on that day in 1865, when Union General Gordon Granger stood on the balcony of Galveston’s Ashton Villa to read the contents of “General Order No. 3”:
The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free. This involves an absolute equality of personal rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves, and the connection heretofore existing between them becomes that between employer and hired labor. The freedman are advised to remain quietly at their present homes and work for wages. They are informed that they will not be allowed to collect at military posts and that they will not be supported in idleness either there or elsewhere.
In Texas, that day has been an official state holiday since 1980. We call it Juneteenth, a name coming from a portmanteau of the word June and the suffix, “teenth”, as in “Nineteenth“, coined by 1903. (Thank you, Google.)
Also in 1903, a book was published on U.S. Presidents, which I have in my collection.
Except for a loose binding, it’s in remarkably good shape for a 110-year-old. God willing we should all live to such a ripe old age. I keep it as reference for the next generation, since history is constantly being rewritten by present dictators publishers. As the Academy Award-winning movie Lincoln showed us last year, interest in President Lincoln has not faded. This book paints a loving portrait of the “awful smart chap.” CLICK TO ENLARGE.
As the audience is “young people,” the tone is consistent in its intent, which I find endearing. Here it explains why a tender-hearted Lincoln did not have each deserter shot dead, per accepted war protocol.
“While the world lasts, no one will ever forget the Emancipation Proclamation of Abraham Lincoln.” Let’s hope not.
The Poor Man’s Six Flags
Today I showcase a fascinating assortment of another favorite picture book of mine, In Search of the Corn Queen. In it, Greta Pratt shares pictures of various county fairs in the American Midwest. Some are hopeful; some are hopeless. But all are a window into small town celebration.
This one gives me a glimpse of that adolescent excitement over what could be, with the whole world laid out before you, an endless possibility.
Like I said, boy, all you gotta do is pop 10 balloons to win those skateboards on the wall. It’s a piece of cake. Would I steer you wrong?
Drench the volleyball coach!
Dang, I thought I was hot, but she’ll totally be hotter than me in ten years, when I’m like, ancient or something.
I learned it from watching you, Dad.
No, that’s cool. You just sit in your overalls on the tailgate, and I’ll hold our wriggling young’un and try to down this cup of Mad Dog before I get pregnant again.
High point of the afternoon; winning bundt cake in the last round of the cake walk.
Good clean fun or a gateway to Spring Break mud wrestling?
Two tickets for a dollar, six tickets per ride, means three dollars for the ferris wheel, or I could just blow it all on a Fanta and funnel cake. What to do? What to do?
No, I am absolutely not living vicariously through my grandbaby.
Oh, yeah, life goes on. Long after the thrill of living is gone.
Cap ‘n’ Gowntime
Recession be damned! The world awaits you, graduating seniors–who were born when Shania Twain hit the video scene, cavorting about in midriff-baring vests like a show pony, which, incidentally, seems like it happened early Tuesday. See how time flies? No matter! You’re a high school graduate now. March into college with your chin held high! Inevitable burden of student debt be damned!
Can’t you see the looks on those happy teen’s faces above? The world is your oyster! Actually, that guy has quite a firm set of crow’s feet there, doesn’t he? And that receding hairline. Is he a senior or a senior? Whatever, I’m getting sidetracked. The point is, high school is over. So over. So yay! Although you will think about it intermittently over the next few decades, as you fret over lost relationships or struggle with regret and forgiveness and bitterness.
But whatever–your generation has the benefit of social media! Like, you GREW UP with it already existing. You know all about apps and tweets and those stupid things like L8R that young people text, which isn’t even connected to proper English. Do you even know how to write cursive?
Anyway, the point is that life is like lying on a bed of daisies from here on out. That picture reveals all. Granted, it was taken in June 1941, so I guess those teens are your grandparent’s age? Oh, great-grandparents? Damn. Well, look how happy they were. Maybe technically we weren’t fighting in WWII yet, so the future looked bright at that moment. Of course, by December, there was Pearl Harbor and then you know what followed. Oh, you don’t? WTH? Don’t they teach History anymore?
So what happened was the Allies won ultimately. Cool, huh? And then there was peace and young people moved into cookie cutter houses like Levittown and all was right. Except then there was the Korean War. And the Cold War. And Vietnam. That one didn’t work out; you can see the aftermath of that on street corners. You’ve probably never heard of the Falkland Island War or Desert Storm… Anyway, the Berlin Wall came down, so it’s all good. Except for the Middle East and North Korea and the debt to China. But things will totally work out. Ebb and flow, you guys. You got this. Totally.
And just in case you’ve never heard this SUNSCREEN song (which I still cannot FATHOM is as old as YOU ARE), take heed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I5NAPZp2w-o. It’s a way better motivational speech than I could ever give.
Dream Big, They Said
Here it is in a nutshell: the reality of 1:30am bar life. Verbena sees the 2:00am last call on the horizon. Semisonic will play “Closing Time,” and the jukebox will stop, the lights will come up, and the illusion will shatter. But in this brief moment, with Lloyd’s arm around her, his warm bourbony breath on her cheeks, and fiery hot nuts so accessible and so amazingly affordable, life is good.
This is one of the most telling portraits from Henry Horenstein’s book HonkyTonk, a book of fascinating black and white portraits he took mostly from the country and western scene in the 1970s. It’s hard to narrow a brief selection down, but there are sites that showcase many of them, such as http://clampart.com/2012/07/honky-tonk-portraits-of-country-music-2/#/13. However, I prefer to leaf through the book itself and create my own back stories.
Is Earl waxing nostalgic for his salad days, missing the boys in his high school rockabilly band, before the tattoos and the Kool habit? Before Arlene cheated with Vernon, his supposed best friend, and then a twister took Vernon to his maker, and isn’t that sweet justice?
Lookin’ for love in all the right places.
Last call indeed.
I Don't Get It 